Conditioning
by stcrmpilot
Summary: It was unusual in and of itself; the Doctor was almost always gone by the time she woke up. It was even more unusual that he didn't actually seem to be getting ready. In fact, he wasn't doing much of anything—just standing there, leaning his hands on the edge of the counter and staring at the mirror with a rather despondent look on his face. (TW for discussion of self-harm)


**A/N** : I finally made a sideblog on Tumblr for all my writing crap! The username is also stcrmpilot, if anyone's interested. Anyways, enjoy!

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Donna woke to find herself alone, as per usual. She could've sworn the Doctor had been there at some point, but he definitely wasn't anymore—she was splayed across both sides of the bed, tangled up in the blankets. His side felt wonderfully cool, and she wriggled over farther, sighing. Though she didn't bother opening her eyes she could tell it was already bright out. Or not _out_ , rather, for the window wasn't real. But it was still too bright; she was about as far from a morning person as she could be.

Well… maybe it wasn't too bright. She could stand five more minutes.

Or ten.

She let herself start to drift off again, only to be interrupted a moment later by the sound of someone shuffling around. Groaning inwardly, she resigned herself to the fact that it was probably time to get up, and rolled onto her side with a wide yawn. She opened her eyes, blinking a few times to focus.

They first found the Doctor, standing in the en suite across from her. He was mostly unclothed, his shirt and trousers still missing, but he'd found a pair of black boxers and one sock; he must've been in the middle of getting dressed and become distracted. Again. His hair was even more disheveled than usual, the back sticking up all over the place, and Donna couldn't help a fond smile spreading across her face before she even fully registered the picture.

It was unusual in and of itself; the Doctor was almost always gone by the time she woke up, off to tinker or read or whatever the Martian liked to do when he disappeared into the labyrinth that was his ship. When he did stay, he preferred to sit on the bed, showered and dressed, and busy himself reading through the stack of alien women's magazines they'd acquired. (She said "they". It was mostly him.) It was even more unusual that he didn't actually seem to be getting ready. In fact, he wasn't doing much of anything—just standing there, leaning his hands on the edge of the counter and staring at the mirror with a rather despondent look on his face. That was unlike him too.

Donna only realized what he was doing when he straightened up, crossing his arms over his stomach, and let his gaze fall to the floor. He had his lips pressed together in an angry line, his brow furrowed; she watched his back rise and fall with his too-quick breaths as he tried to ease his discomfort. Her heart clenched in sympathy.

"Hey. Doctor," she murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.

His gaze snapped up to her, surprised. "Oh," he said. "Morning." He didn't lower his arms.

Donna, still lamenting the fact that she was awake (just a bit), pushed herself up to sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed. She jerked her head to say "c'mere"; the Doctor hesitated, then wandered over and sat next to her, stubbornly avoiding meeting her eyes. He had that guarded, wary look that she recognized from way back, when he'd only just started getting comfortable opening up to her, and she couldn't help feeling a bit sad that he still felt so uneasy when it came to this.

Slowly, giving him the chance to shrug her off, she took his hand and guided it away from his body. "Don't do that to yourself, Spaceman," she said softly. An embarrassed blush spread across his cheeks as he realized she'd seen him in front of the mirror. "C'mon. If I'm not allowed, you aren't either."

A small, crooked smile tugged at one corner of his lips. "You look good, though," he mumbled, his eyes flicking up and down her body and reminding her of the fact that she was only wearing a pair of knickers and one of his t-shirts.

Resisting the urge to disagree, she said, "So do you, you prawn."

He sighed, his posture sagging. "How can you say that?" he muttered, eyes flashing with resentment. "You don't have to say that."

"Tough." Donna turned his hand over in hers, leaning into his side as she rubbed gentle circles into his palm. Her fingers skimmed higher, over his wrist and forearm, and she stroked her thumb over the lighter lines of scar tissue. His hand twitched as he fought the urge to pull away, but he stayed still, making a conscious effort to relax under her touch.

"This okay?" she whispered, looking up at him.

He looked tense and perhaps a bit nervous, but he nodded.

"I know you don't like them," murmured Donna, "and I'm sorry. Really, I am, but– well, I just don't see it that way."

"What do you mean?" asked the Doctor, sounding suspicious.

"I have no idea what's been going through that daft old Martian head of yours. What you were telling yourself over there. I know it can't have been very nice, though, and I don't agree." She drew back, still holding his arm. He looked awfully tired for someone who'd just woken up, his gaze distant and forlorn. His left arm remained around his waist.

With a shuddering inhale, he extracted his arm and scrubbed his hands over his face. He rocked forwards and leaned his forehead against his clenched fists, elbows braced on his knees. Donna watched without interfering, sensing he needed a moment to himself, even though she longed to pull him into a hug and just hold him until he felt better. She didn't know why it was bothering him so much this morning, out of all the times he'd shown his scars around her—just one of those days, she supposed. She could sympathise. They'd already been through this scenario a fair number of times in the reverse, especially after they'd gotten together, and she knew exactly the mixture of shame, embarrassment and dread that he was surely feeling. He never let her feel like that for long; she hoped she could do the same for him.

After a long, quiet moment, the Doctor cleared his throat, glancing in her direction, and mumbled, "I don't know how you can stand to look at me, I really don't." His voice was rough and strained, and she knew he was holding back tears.

"Oh, Doctor," she said softly, leaning in to wrap an arm around his shoulders. "I could say the same, you know. Sometimes."

He looked to her again, sharper. "That's ridiculous," he said firmly. "You've nothing to be ashamed of, nothing at all."

"Then we can both agree that we aren't exactly neutral in this, yeah?"

The Doctor realized, too late, that she'd cornered him. He sighed. "S'pose."

Donna, seized by a sudden bout of reckless affection for the stupid alien man, shuffled over to sit in front of him. She took his hands away from his face and held them between her own, prompting him to meet her gaze.

"All that stuff is in the past, right?"

She saw the flicker of alarm in his eyes, the desperation to prove he was doing alright. "Of course," he said. "I'm not… I– I wouldn't…"

"Then this is how things are now," she murmured. "There's nothing good or bad or– or embarrassing about it, that's just how it is. You've got scars, so what? So have I! There's no difference. No sense beating yourself up over it."

His gaze slipped away from her, a furrow between his brows. "There is a difference," he said quietly.

"Why?"

"'Cause… well…" He struggled to form his thoughts into words, starting to grow frustrated. "'Cause you could look at a scratch on your arm and remember climbing too high up a tree and falling, or a scrape on your knee and think of running round the playground with your mates, and it's fun. It hurt at the time, but it's a good memory. I don't get that. I can't look at myself without remembering that–" He shook his head, his eyes wide and despairing, shining with tears. "All I see are reminders, Donna. Of how– how weak and careless and bloody _stupid_ I was. And I'm stuck with that, now. I only get this body once and I've already ruined it."

His voice cracked on those last words, and he redirected his gaze to the ceiling, sitting up straight as if to get as far away from her as he could without moving. Donna resisted the urge to reach for his shoulder; she wasn't sure he'd appreciate being touched there at the moment. Instead she put a hand on his knee. It was just enough to remind him to breathe, and he relaxed once more, sighing as he settled back down.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He sniffled.

"'S okay," she whispered, reaching out to wipe an errant tear from his cheek. "You haven't ruined anything, y'know. I can't imagine why you think that, honestly, I can't."

He scoffed. "You can't tell me you like seeing them."

She hesitated, trying to figure out how to convince him otherwise; he took this as confirmation, and gave a short, bitter chuckle.

"No, Doctor–" she pointed a warning finger at him. "You shut up and listen."

He blinked in surprise, but didn't say a word.

"That's not what I see," she said, gentler now. "I know it is for you. I understand. But that doesn't mean you're right." Ever so slowly, she took one of his hands and turned it over; when she touched him this time, running her thumb along the ridged skin until her palm came to rest on his forearm, he didn't flinch away.

"When I look at you," she murmured, "and only when I think about it, mind, I barely even notice anymore… but when I look at your scars, I just think how incredible you are. What a strong, and– and resilient person you've had to be. And even though I'm sorry you ever had to go through that, I just remember how proud I am of you. God– don't you get it, Spaceman?" she appealed, pulling his hand closer, urging him to see how obvious this was to her. "Scars don't mean you failed, they mean you won. They mean you've healed." She laughed. "That's what they're for, dumbo!"

Finally, he cracked a smile, unable to keep from laughing along a bit. "Oh, fine," he conceded. "You're right. As always. But–" He sobered quickly, the smile slipping from his face, and was quiet for a moment. "I– I don't like them," he confessed, almost a whisper. "I'm sorry, I don't. I shouldn't, I know, 'cause you are right, of course. Logically, I know you're right." He shook his head, embarrassed. "I still… hate them."

Donna offered a soft smile. "I know. That's okay. But maybe, one day, you might not?"

Some of the tension left him, and a hint of a smile returned. "One day," he agreed.

"And, y'know, either way…" She shrugged. "I love you. Scars or no. And, well, you can always come to me, if you need a reminder."

The Doctor stared for a moment, looking a bit shell-shocked; then, to her surprise, he leaned forward and drew her into an embrace. It was much gentler than their usual celebratory hugs, and when he nestled his head against her shoulder she couldn't help her heart doing a little flip.

"Love you too," he mumbled. "And, uh… thank you."

"Don't mention it," she murmured. She released him after a minute, and was pleased to see the bleak, pained expression gone from his face. "Feeling any better?"

He sniffled. "Yeah. Much."

"I'm glad," she said sincerely. "Now, no more talking down to yourself in the mirror. Okay?"

He sighed, but nodded. "If I'm not allowed," he teased, "you aren't either."

"You've got a deal, Time Boy."

"I suppose I should be getting dressed," said the Doctor, glancing down at himself. Then he quirked an eyebrow at her. "You seem to have stolen my shirt."

"Yeah?" Donna let her eyes trail down and back up his mostly-naked form, and bit her lip, intentionally taunting him. "What're you gonna do about it?"

He broke into a grin and pounced on her, guiding her down to lie against the pillows. She yelped in surprise at the sudden movement, but he threaded his fingers through her hair and kissed her enthusiastically, averting any further protest.

"Insatiable, you are," she laughed, when he finally pulled back to let her breathe.

"Mm-hmm," he agreed, leaning down to nuzzle at her neck. She felt him nip and suck at her pulse point, his slight stubble rough against her skin, and tipped her head back to give him better access. "You don't seem to mind."

His voice was low and rough, and it sent a shiver up her spine. No, she most certainly did not mind—if only because it was nice to see him enjoy himself in something more revealing than his customary suit.

Yeah, she thought, that was it. Nothing to do with the feel of his body pressed against hers, his cool breath tickling her skin. An exercise in self-esteem, really, more than anything else. Call it conditioning.

Then he returned his lips to hers, and she forgot all about it.


End file.
